In the Dark Future
by Veilfire Runes
Summary: In the Iron Kingdom, a tyrant reigns, with the power of the One Ring. A dark era has swept over Middle-Earth, blotting out the light - Elves are driven from the land, Dwarves hide in the mountain halls, and all pay fealty to the Iron King. But there are some who resisted...
1. All Shall Fade

A series of ficlets, originally written for Terrifying Tolkien Week on tumblr, set in the Patior verse. You will need to have read at least the first and second chapter of Patior for these to make sense, but they contain no spoilers for the main story. These ficlets can mostly stand-alone, but the fates of some characters will remain ambiguous so as not to spoil the main Patior storyline.

* * *

The coffin was tiny, and the figure within smaller still, diminished beneath the black shroud. He stood at the end of the coffin, swallowing his grief. His hands were trembling. Black, black, black, the shroud - the colour of traitors. He had not deserved this, had not deserved this death.

 _I should have stopped this. I could have stopped them._

He turned on his heel and marched out of the crypt, letting the door slam shut behind him. The door to this particular crypt bore no name, just as the coffin had borne no lid - no dignity, no remembrance for those who died a traitor's death. He resolutely ignored how his eyes blurred with tears as he collected his sword from the gates to the crypts.

The climb back up to the Citadel was a long one, passing the doors to the dungeons, deep in the mountainside. Singing, in voices rough and broken and rusted, edged to sharpness with grief, rose defiantly but distant from within. He wished they would stop. Here, the tears were harder to ignore.

 _It wasn't my fault. I did what I could._

Higher he climbed, trying not to let his gaze linger where blood had stained the white walls no matter how hard the staff had scrubbed them. He carefully side-stepped around the cracks in the floor, and the piles of chipped stone from where swords had struck the walls, leaving scars that could never be healed.

 _Traitor._

His cloak is not black, but he knows it should be. He had betrayed those who had trusted him, and now a choice lay before him.

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor," he whispered to himself as he walked down the pristine white corridors of the Citadel. This was his home, the home of his forefathers before him, the place where once he had been a boy, happy and carefree. That boy would not recognise the man he was to become - nor would he like him.

"I am of the House of Hùrin," he told himself. "My line is the line of Stewards." He did not look out the window to where a white tree had once stood, waiting to flower. It never had. Now it never would again, and the white stump was stained. He did not think he could ever look at it again without shame.

"We guard the throne until such a time as the King returns." His father's voice echoed him in memory, teaching him the words with gentle patience.

"We fear no foe."

 _What happens when the King_ is _the foe?_

He unsheathed his long sword, the metal ringing a chilling counterpoint to the music below. His father had gifted it to him when he came of age, fresh and clean then. Now the metal was dull and chipped from recent battle.

"We fear no darkness."

He thought of Faramir: _let him be safe_. _Let him vanish into the wild, and let him be free._ But he would never know.

"And here my guard is ended." The last line, only to be uttered by an abdicating Steward, echoed hollowly back at him as he stood before the doors to the throne room. Boromir took a deep breath, studying the familiar patterns and inlays in the wood; how often had he stood here, waiting to be announced? But he was not expected, no herald stood now to announce him.

He was alone.

His sword trembled in his hand. What was he thinking? This was madness, folly! He would be throwing everything away; his pride, his duty, his honour. Everything his father and ancestors had stood for, and guarded—

 _He had begged for Boromir to help him. To speak in his defence. To save him._

 _How he had stared, pleading. He would never forget those eyes so long as he lived, how they had widened with despair and betrayal._

 _A tiny coffin, and the body within smaller still._

 _Black, black, black. No name on the crypt door._

Boromir staggered back, shaking off the spell, gasping. He knew his purpose now, his duty. He would not back down.

He pushed open the doors to the throne room, naked steel in his hands, his voice issuing challenge.

The Iron King rose from his throne - no fury nor sadness creased his features, only calm acceptance and perhaps...disappointment? He descended gracefully down the steps, unsheathing his own blade, Anduril, as he did so. The Ring shone cruelly bright for a moment, before the Iron King wrapped his hand about it.

"Another traitor? So be it."


	2. Stars Hide Your Fires

There were no windows in the dungeons of Minas Tirith. Windows were for high-value hostages, the Iron King's special "guests". So were lights, good food, and fresh water for that matter, he thought with a snort, feeling for his small dented cup of water in the dark. The only light, distant and dim, came through the crack in the door that led out of the dungeons. He was grateful for what little light it let through sometimes - he had made that crack himself.

But he was not a high-value hostage, not anymore. Gimli held no objection to his demotion in status, knowing that it meant only that his kin had refused to bend the knee. Dwarves were stubborn, far more stubborn than the Iron King had accounted for. They had not marched to war as the Elves had, in outraged defiance - but instead the Dwarven kingdoms had spat in the face of the messengers of the Iron King and shut their gates against him.

He spent a lot of time thinking about that, for there was little else to do in the darkness. He wondered if they still defied the King, if they were under siege, if their ancestral homes had been abandoned as they had been before. He wondered how different things might have been if Elves and Dwarves had been able to put their differences aside and marched to war together. So many things might have been prevented.

The faint clink of chains shifting distracted him from his quest to find his cup. He looked up to where he knew the cell bars were, and knew that beyond, lay the only other occupied cell in these forsaken dungeons. Gimli wore no chains of his own, and for that, he was thankful. It would make it easier the next time they tried to escape.

"Ho," he called softly, keeping his voice down lest the guards hear him. They had gotten touchy about noise recently, and Gimli wondered why. A low groan answered him, and the shift of chains again.

A pair of eyes appeared in the dark, lambent and reflective as a cat's, shining in the dark. Gimli no longer flinched from the eerie sight, it was all too familiar now. And then they vanished once more as Legolas broke down into harsh wracking coughs.

The Elf, for whatever mad reason the Iron King had concocted, received the harshest punishments. Perhaps it was revenge for the Elven Uprising, perhaps it was just because they had been close once upon a time. Perhaps Legolas reminded him too much of something the Iron King would rather forget. They would never know for certain.

Legolas, to his credit, had often volunteered to take the punishments earned by other prisoners. When there had been other prisoners. Most were gone now, released on probation, or released into death as the Iron King was fond of saying. Gimli had tried to volunteer once, but the guards had ignored him. He could not figure out why, but they often passed by his cell when it came to punishments.

"Here." Gimli's hand finally closed on his tiny cup of water and thrust it through the bars towards Legolas' cell. "They did not leave you any earlier, since you were not conscious." He left the cup as close to the other cell as he could reach, knowing that Legolas would be able to see it more clearly than he could.

"Thank you," came the croaked reply. "How long?" Legolas often spoke these days in short clipped sentences, his voice too strained for much more than that.

"About three hours, no more." He thanked Mahal every day for that Dwarven sense of time, cultivated from years of living in their underground halls.

Whatever Legolas was about to say was cut off as screaming began in the halls above. The pair winced in unison, knowing exactly what they meant. Another "traitor", a rebel, had been caught and brought to face the Iron King's Mercy. There would be no long imprisonment for them, not for those in open rebellion. The screaming intensified.

Gimli felt rage burst hot in his heart, bright and fierce as a forge. One day, he told himself, one day he would be free again. He looked across to Legolas' cell, and saw the Elf watching him. His eyes were narrowed and hard, gleaming cold as the stars. Gimli heard the harsh clank of chains pulled taut.

The Iron King had beaten all of the gentleness, of the pity out of them both. And one day, they would make them regret it.


	3. Wild Hunt

"...and so, in the name of our forebears, who stood together in Grand Alliance against the forces of darkness, it is Our most sincere wish that Your Majesty will see reason and proceed to Minas Tirith with all haste to join Your kingdom of Mirkwood with the new Iron Kingdom." The messenger swallowed nervously, looking up from the letter at the Elven King before him. Thranduil stared back, his eyes fey, but otherwise emotionless. The messenger hastily continued with the remainder of the letter.

"We urge Your Majesty to make all haste, for the union of Our two great kingdoms is essential for the peace of all Middle-Earth. Further to this, We know that your Majesty is eager to be reunited with Your son, the Prince Legolas, who remains here in Minas Tirith as Our honoured guest." Another nervous swallow. "Yours in fellowship, King—"

"Leave." Thranduil cut them off with a wave of his hand, his voice flat and inflectionless.

The messenger spluttered in shock. "I beg your pardon—"

"I know his name," Thranduil drawled. "And I will not have it uttered in my halls again. Now, leave."

The messenger, for once possessing more sense than dignity, bowed and all but fled from the hall. Left alone, but for the few guards that remained in the chamber, Thranduil descended from his throne, each step slow and methodical.

 _How dare he._ How dare that...that _Man_ send him such a demand? Oh he may have couched it in polite and diplomatic words, but the message was plain: fealty in exchange for his son. How base. He had no doubt in his mind exactly what would happen when the messenger returned to Gondor with his refusal.

Legolas would understand.

He would.

The needs of the kingdom had to come first. He could not risk everything simply for his own son. There were hundreds of Elves in Mirkwood, still recovering from the last war. They trusted him to rule them wisely and fairly - some would argue that bending the knee would help preserve their lives, rather than throw them away in a possible war with the South, but there was a terrible dread in Thranduil's heart.

That letter had filled him with a deep unease, the same unease he felt when he looked towards the shadow of Mordor where his father had fallen, or drew too close to the creeping darkness of Dol Guldur. There had been no sincerity in those pretty words, every word had been hollow. There would be no unifying peace, only more death. That was the Iron Promise. Fair words and a slow lingering death.

Legolas would understand.

But as the days passed, his unease grew to dread as news crept slowly, too slowly northwards to his isolated kingdom. The Iron King, as he was now known, was in a rage. All those did not swear to uphold his peace were enemies of Middle-Earth. He had seized hostages, and others had been condemned to his dungeons. Executions were taking place.

Still Thranduil did not act. He was patient, he knew how to wait. He knew what he had to do.

Finally, nearly six months after the rise of the Iron Kingdom, all was made ready. Celeborn had arrived at last, and all of Mirkwood and Lothlórien stood behind him. Thranduil did not ask where Galadriel or Elrond were, it was important that he did not know. They had gone across the Sea, he told himself, with the other non-combatants. He willed himself to believe that.

He sat atop his steed, clad in shining silver armour, his cousin beside him - the image of First Age lords riding to war. And behind them rode the final host of the Eldar of Middle-Earth, the likes of which would never be seen again by mortal eyes. Southwards they rode on horses and deer, fleet as the wind. They did not stop for food or rest, fuelled only by the devotion to their lords and the knowing that they were buying time for their kin to reach the Havens.

Thranduil rode at the head of the party, knowing that he had committed his people to this course, and in doing so, had likely ensured that he might never see his beloved Mirkwood again. Unless of course, they were victorious and the Iron Kingdom was toppled as they hoped.

But there was no hope in Thranduil's heart: he had already made a greater sacrifice.

Legolas would understand his decision.

Wouldn't he?


	4. The Iron Price

He watched as the blood spread and seeped into the cracks between the formerly white tiles. Tiny rivers ran between those cracks, meandering their way through the valleys of the tiles. Crimson cracks beneath a white facade. The Iron King watched, for a long breathless moment, enthralled.

Then the spell broke and he sheathed his sword, returning once more to his throne. He did not call for his guards, nor any servants to move the body. The thought did not occur to him. He sat on his pristine white throne and stared at his hands, and the crimson cracks across his palms.

 _Why do they all betray me?_

Why did it always have to end like this? Time after time, no matter how much he tried to reason with them, in the end one after another, they had all betrayed him. Couldn't they see he was doing his best? Why did none of them want _peace?_

Rebellions, uprisings, conspiracies, he would wipe them all out. He had achieved peace in Gondor, and restored Arnor. The rest of Middle-Earth _would_ fall into line. They had to. It was folly to stand against him, folly to choose war over peace.

 _Peace must be bought. Even at the highest price._

He had paid that price. Over and over, he had paid it until he had nothing left to give. He was alone, and he had nothing left. But he could not allow his Kingdom to fall into war and suffering again. He would not allow that. He rubbed his neck absently, feeling the bite of the chain there. He had to protect his people.

The dead man still lay on his floor, sightless eyes open and accusing.

"You betrayed me first," he hissed at the dead man, his fingers wrapping around the Ring at his neck. "I kept your secret and this was how you repaid me. Backstabbing and lies all along."

 _That's right. They were all liars, all traitors._

The pool of blood inched wider, a spreading corruption over the tiles. How easily nobility turned to treachery, he mused. Was there none he could trust?

 _None but yourself._

The people, he supposed, would have questions about this death. They had loved him dearly, even before the coming of their King. He had been their noble darling, their captain, their most loyal son. How shocked they would be to discover his dark secrets, his uttermost shame. When combined with attempted regicide, the entire lineage would be cast into darkness, a line of traitors whose names would be banned from use.

He needed to act swiftly, once the body was discovered or people would start to doubt, to have too many questions. Though perhaps it might be useful to lure his traitor brother out of hiding again. It would be good to know where the rebellion was hiding, so that he might snuff them out. It was proving to be a thorn in his side.

The Iron King, lost in thought, froze as he reached the bottom steps of his throne once more. The traitor had left the doors to the throne room open when he had so rudely barged in, crying challenge. The Iron King always kept the doors firmly shut when he was upon his throne. He just—

He could not stand the _noise._

Singing echoed faintly through the corridors, a rough and broken sort, that might have once been beautiful. The haunting melody reached the Iron King, who flinched, recognising the rising cadence of the words, the soft lilts of a lament older than even the singer.

 _Elvish!_

The Ring burned against his chest and the Iron King pressed his hands against his ears, screwing his eyes shut. _Make it stop!_ He could not take it, let him stop that infernal singing! He had banned that wretched language for a reason.

— _Elrond singing soft lullabies when the storms kept him awake; chattering with Erestor in the library, faltering over the ancient Quenyan words in the books; Elladan and Elrohir, laughing, lifting him higher and higher; Glorfindel, mysterious but lighthearted, teaching him poetry older than the Sun; Arwen whispering promises and love, her hand soft upon his cheek—_

Aragorn let out a soft wail of despair, caught between memories and the pain, and then his fingers grasped the Ring once more and the spell was broken.

The Iron King straightened up, fury flashing through him as he clutched the Ring like a drowning man. He had only moments to act this time. This time he would not be merciful. They had been warned. He booted aside the corpse as he strode ahead, his entire focus fixed on the dungeons and the torturous singer within.

This time, he would rip his tongue out if he had to. If only so that he might have peace.


	5. Beauty Is Terror

He was their King, and he was beautiful.

In him lived again the glory of the ancient Numenorean race, those splendid Kings from across the Sea, who brought wisdom and guidance out of the West when their ancestors had been abandoned in the darkness to cruel torment. He was tall and proud, his gaze keen and piercing.

They had cheered his coming, this Man born out of their Northern kin, their King unlooked-for. They had wept in gladness when he had driven back the Dark Lord and extinguished his tyranny by turning his own weapon against him, saving countless lives that might have otherwise have been lost in a pointless war. He had ascended the white throne of the Citadel, and wore the ancient winged crown which complemented his dark hair well, they all agreed.

Thus began a time of peace, for their great King was friends and comrades with many of the leaders and influential folk of other realms and it seemed to the peoples of Minas Tirith that they were seeing the beginning of a Golden Age, which there would be no more fighting, no more grief of war. The King had told them so.

And then...odd things had begun to happen. Worrying things.

Rumours reached them of discontent; the other nations of Middle-Earth had concerns, concerns about their King. Elves moved freely through the city then, asking questions - did they like their King? Did they feel safe? A few more conscientious citizens had brought these odd questions to the city guard, who in turn brought it to the King. Those Elves never returned to Minas Tirith again, and the city settled back into contentment again, gossiping over the Queen who was travelling to them from the North.

But no Queen ever came. But no, there had never been one? They had been so certain, there had been so much discussion of a royal wedding. The King had laughed when it had come up during petitions and dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, but there, surely, in his eyes? The crowd had been uneasy then, seeing the fury lurking in his eyes.

But Minas Tirith, all of Gondor in fact, was at peace. There were no orcs, nor evil folk, or darkness, the King reminded them, and they all agreed.

Life returned to normal and all was peaceful. The King ruled benevolently, and Gondor prospered. Things had never been better, the King told them, and the people agreed.

Then the disappearances began, then the more public arrests - the historians that spoke out, the Captain of the Guard, Beregond, who was loved by all. The people fretted, but their beautiful King came among them with his kind face and soft words and reassured them: a conspiracy, a plot to overthrow their rightful King. But he had taken care of it. They were not to worry, everything was fine.

Outcry from the other nations followed the arrests, and then the Elven Uprising. The King had dealt with that swiftly and fairly, the people agreed. They could not trust the Elves after all, look what they had done! So when the Elven tongues were banned in Gondor, no one disagreed - after all, the King told them, it had been such in Numenor.

Then came the executions. No one protested to these, after all the deals made with the other nations following the Elven Uprising had been fair, as the King had said. If the other nations could not stick to them, then they forfeited the lives of their hostages. It was only fair.

They watched, just as adoring as they had been in those first few months, as the King celebrated his ninetieth birthday. He was beautiful, they agreed. Fair and proud like the Kings of old, merciful and just. He had brought them through their darkest days and delivered them a kingdom of peace.

The Golden Kingdom, some called it, with its beautiful Silver King.

He was their King, and he was beautiful, won't you agree?


	6. Blood is Thicker than Water

The pyre burned fiercely, spitting sparks defiantly at the cold March air. Winter still gripped Gondor, though March was wearing on, and spring seemed like it would never come. Only the previous week it had snowed and the Gondorians had muttered uneasily about ill-omens. But for those who gathered around a funeral pyre in a small clearing in the Drúadan forest, the weather was the least of their worries. They had, briefly, considered those who lived in this forest, but since none had shown themselves, there was little they could do to appease any offence.

There was little time they could spare, and the fire would draw attention, but none could quite stir themselves from the circle of light the pyre gave off. At its head, dangerously close to the flames, was Rínor Thranduilion, heir to the Woodland Realm, the light sharpening the copper threads in his hair.

For over a month, he had lived in Minas Tirith, trying to get close enough to the dungeons to rescue Legolas from cruel captivity - and he had failed. He had risked everything on a gamble, and he had lost. He had almost been seen the day that Legolas had been executed, but luck had favoured him that day, allowing him to escape and hide in the city again. But he had not left in the weeks that had followed, for grief had utterly claimed him. When he had at last returned from its clinging depths, he had given himself a new mission.

And now the first part of that mission had been fulfilled, and he wept. Through a long and dangerous night, he had crept into the heart of the tombs of Minas Tirith, and then, had stolen the body of his brother. And to this forest he had brought it to be given to a fire. It was not the way of the Silvan Elves to burn their dead, but Rínor had not the tools to give Legolas the burial he deserved.

His companions stood about him, solemn-faced and reserved. Most were keeping an eye out for the soldiers of the Iron Kingdom in pursuit, others were simply giving Rínor the privacy he needed to grieve for the younger brother that he had failed to rescue.

But as the fire burned low and little but ash remained, one stepped forward and placed a hand on Rínor's shoulder, startling him from thought. The eldest Thranduilion turned, his eyes red with tears and smoke, and met the steady grey gaze of Elladan.

"We must move on," Elladan said, though his voice was rough with own grief. The twin sons of Elrond and Rínor had been close friends since they were elflings, and they had treated Legolas like a younger brother in years long passed.

"A moment more," Rínor begged, but Elladan shook his head.

"We have lingered too long, _mellon nin._ If we remain any longer, the sun will rise and the soldiers will be able to pursue us more freely." Elladan's face softened. "He is not here anymore, Rínor. He has gone to Mandos and is at peace. This is only ash that remains. You have done right by him."

Rínor's shoulders slumped, and he nodded, yielding to his old friend. There was nothing more he could do for Legolas; but there was plenty more to be done for Middle-Earth, and those who still dwelt there. He cast one last sorrowful look at the pyre and then turned back to the odd group that had gathered.

Elladan and Elrohir, steadfast and burning with the betrayal their foster-brother had unleashed on the world - they had no home to return to now, for the Iron King had razed Imladris to the ground and salted the earth in bitterness. Glóin, who shared in Rínor's grief, for his son, Gimli had also been executed by the whims of the Iron King. Two men of Rohan there was also, and a woman of Dol Amroth, Ivriniel. And at the back a hooded figure - an Elf, Rínor thought, but he had never seen them with their hood down.

Rínor felt his name settled on him all the more heavily, and steeled his heart. There could be no going back from this, no humble retreat to the Sea. He met the gaze of each of his companions in turn, and was gladdened at the firm resolution he saw there.

Soon, the Iron King would fall.


	7. Free Choice

"What is to be done then?" Varda's voice cut across the noise of the arguing Valar, clear and cold as the stars above them. The Valar had been gathered in the Máhanaxar for days already, debating the issue of Middle-Earth without end, and they were no closer to a solution than they had been when they started.

Varda did not find the Máhanaxar a particularly pleasant place to spend her time; there were too many unpleasant memories associated with this place. If she closed her eyes for even a moment in this place, she could still see the face of young Fëanor when his kinsman had told him of his father's death - the grief and the agony there, before it had been replaced with the burning rage that had so defined the last few years of his life. The grief of the Ñoldor still haunted her, even though centuries of the Sun had passed.

She turned her burning gaze upon Manwë, imploring him to bring their council back to sense and order, but he sat silently on his silver throne. He had grown quieter and quieter as the years had passed, turning his gaze ever to Middle-Earth, letting Eonwë speak for him more often than not. She knew that the fate of those who still dwelt in the Hither Lands troubled him greatly, but why would he not just _act?_

Manwë sighed quietly and then banged his sapphire Ñoldor-wrought staff three times upon the stone floor of the Máhanaxar. The other Valar looked him, startled, and eased themselves back into their respective seats, settling back into their familiar Elven aspects, that they so often used in these councils. Manwë waited patiently for them to settle, and then nodded to Varda.

"We must come to agreement," she said, trying not to sound to exasperated. It was bad enough that they must argue amongst themselves, but it was worse that they do so in public. Though there were no Elves present in the Máhanaxar, she had caught glimpses of them passing by, or lingering to listen to the Valar. She did not have it in her heart to be angry with them, for the Elves were dearest to her of all living things, but she was embarrassed that they might have seen their lack of composure. "There remain Firstborn in the lands of Middle-Earth, pressed to flee their homes for fear of this Man. Those Sindar and Silvan have not come to us willingly for sanctuary, but have been commanded to leave or perish. Surely, we should act? The balance of Middle-Earth should not be decided by one Man alone, by way of wanton slaughter!"

But Tulkas was shaking his head, even before she had entirely finished speaking.

"Middle-Earth we swore to leave to its own devices, long ago. We have done enough warring and interfering with the Hither Shores. Leave it be, Varda, and let the Children sort this amongst themselves. What even could we do; this Aragorn is no Melkor; it would be no war at all, merely akin to snuffing out a candle. What right have we to do such a thing?"

Yavanna near shot out of her seat in her desire to speak, but she held her tongue until Tulkas was done. "For shame, Tulkas!" she cried. "Have you not heard the stories of those who have fled this Iron Kingdom? What right have we, you ask? I say instead, how can we bear to ignore it? It is not only Elves that are suffering, but Men, Halflings and Dwarves also!" Aulë shot her a grateful look at her thoughtfulness towards his Children, but Yavanna continued, "We must do as Varda has said. We must act!"

Oromë looked troubled. "This is, as Tulkas says, a different matter entirely to the deeds of Melkor. Then we were dealing with one of our own. This is a matter for the Children to deal with." His expression and tone belied his words, however, and Varda could tell how torn he was.

"Speak, oh Manwë," Nienna implored. "Tell us, know you the will of Eru?"

All eyes turned to Manwë, but he was looking beyond the Máhanaxar, towards the Sea. Varda knew to where his gaze had been drawn, for he could not look away for long, just as she could not deafen herself to the pleas that reached her keen ears. Even now, the Elves of Middle-Earth prayed for her aid.

Then Námo, who until now had remained silent in their debate, frowned and then let out a startled, half-strangled gasp and vanished from their sight. The abruptness of his exit, along with his uncharacteristic behaviour, was startling to the other Valar, who looked to his wife, Vairë, and to his brother, Irmo, for an explanation.

"He has returned to the Halls," Vairë explained, and her expression was clouded with confusion. "His mind is closed to me, I know not what has troubled him so greatly."

But as if he had been summoned, Námo reappeared, looking greatly disturbed, and almost Varda thought she saw a hint of a deeper anger lurking in his unfathomable eyes.

"A soul has gone from my Halls," he announced. "Such a thing has never happened before, and should not be possible. Not even Melkor could escape them without my leave."

The Máhanaxar erupted into shocked hubbub and Varda was uncertain of what to do. It was unheard of!

"Who was it?" She found herself dreading the answer, even as she asked it. There were so many that would be disastrous if they were let loose again - not just among the Elven spirits that still dwelt in Mandos, but perhaps even among the Men she guessed lurked in its unknowable depths. _Let it not be Feanor, or his sons..._

"The Elf that came lastly from Middle-Earth." Námo's voice betrayed his confusion, and Varda frowned. He was no lord among Elves, a Sindar prince, but no one of particular significance by the standards the Elves held themselves to.

"Thranduilion?" Nienna asked. "His epesse was Legolas, I believe." And Námo nodded in affirmation.

The Valar murmured amongst themselves, fright creeping in amongst their confusion. The Halls of Mandos were inviolable, as Námo had said. Not even Melkor had been able to escape them. And yet, an Elf had done so.

 _How?_

Manwë locked eyes with her, and she saw in their blue depths an infinite sadness. And then, finally he spoke, after a long silence had passed between them.

"We are to do nothing," he said, so softly she almost missed it. "He is no longer our concern. Middle-Earth is to be left alone. This is the will of Eru."

And so it was decided, and nothing more could be said of the matter. But in her heart, Varda was uneasy, and she did not leave the Máhanaxar until long after the others had gone.


End file.
